


This is (not) a joke

by stellary



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: But no smut either, Guess that qualifies it as a pretty useless piece of crap, M/M, No Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellary/pseuds/stellary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond gets poisoned whilst out in the field with Q. Q saves him with sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is (not) a joke

**Author's Note:**

> This was not even a prompt. Just popped into my head. I felt like a real perv writing this and am convinced that some invisible evil power possessed me to produce this, therefore I refuse to dignify it with a half-proper name and give you the permission to shame me in public.

The first time they shagged, it was to save Bond’s life.

No, really.

“You _must_ be joking.” Q said in a level voice which was only betrayed by the tiniest trace of exasperation. 

They were on the tail end of a mission which was a rare occasion in that Q had had to come out in person. The whole affair turned out to be much less glamourous than he had anticipated (pajamas would have been all he needed if he had known what was waiting for him) so he was already being a bit huffy, and now _this_. Unbelievable.

“Why couldn’t they have employed a poison that just kills you straight dead like a decent megalomaniacal villain? Even _I_ could think of seven of those with reliable lethality off the top of my head, for pete’s sake.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself bearing my well-being in mind.” Bond laughed a low, rumbling sort of laughter that almost sounded as if he was finding it all very funny, too, as he poured amber liquid into a tumbler. Perhaps he did. But there was a tremor in his wrist when he brought the glass to his lips, a slight sheen on his forehead and his eyelids were getting droopy.

Observing such, Q rose from the lumpy-cushioned chair. He had made up his mind about what to do, naturally, the moment they had figured out the bizarre plot twist. He is a public servant, after all. To not take action under the current circumstances would be tantamount to the willful destruction of government asset—a prosecutable offense (to say nothing of a smudge on the conscience).

Q would be damned if he was going to let Bond—anyone in general but especially this damnable one—cause more damage to his career than it had already sustained.

He quickly toured around the room, slapping at switches to turn off all the lights except for the one in the lavatory, then began unzipping his cardigan and tugging it off (for greater mobility, naturally). 

Bond’s condition, in the mean time, had visibly deteriorated. His breath came in short, ragged bursts; his eyes had glassed over, face and ears flushed near crimson and all over sweat was pouring out of him.

So Q moved swiftly and efficiently. He grabbed the sick man’s biceps to pull him up, maneuvering him to the foot of the double-size bed covered with a ghastly paisley thing, then pushed him down onto it gently, firmly. When he started working on undoing the tie and shirt buttons the agent grumbled something childish and lifted a hand in a gesture that looked suspiciously like an attempt to swat away Q’s hands.

Q took hold of Bond’s jaw, clamped it in one palm and intoned in his most commanding voice, “Cut it out, Bond. There isn’t time for any of your shit right now. The probability of your certain death if an ejaculation, i.e. the expelling of toxin, is not achieved in—” he shot a glance toward the cheap wall clock, “—fourteen minutes, is exceedingly high, so just fucking let me toss you off, will you?”

Maybe his words took the intended effect or Bond simply became further weakened—the agent’s body went limp. 

Full access having been gained, Q wasted no time in tearing open Bond’s sweat-drenched shirt, sending a few buttons skid audibly across the cracked tile floor. Next, the belt went, then the trousers were worked open.

Muttering a fortifying, “here goes,” Q plunged on top of his agent.

+

Was the quartermaster successful in the unconventional mission? All you have to know is that one of the most elite secret operatives of the British government, human weapon and embodiment of masculinity, James Bond, had survived yet another attempt on his life. 

(When he had recovered enough and Q had filled him in, with the neutrality of a lab technician, on what had been done in order to avert the crisis, Bond looked at Q with something complex [Shock? Disbelief? Approval?] in his eyes.)

“That was hardly fair, was it?”

“Pardon me?”

Bond gave a shrug. “I was completely out of it.”

“Yes, because you allowed yourself to be poisoned by a lethal _aphrodisiac_ which can only be purged by an ejaculation, likely the only kind in the whole bloody world. I swear, only you could—”

“We must repeat the experiment.”

“Oh, we _must_ , says he who was near comatose twenty minutes ago. What makes you think I would ever—”

Bond reached out his right hand, took hold of Q’s jaw, and pressed a kiss on the quartermaster’s lips, stubbles scraping lightly against skin, assaulting Q’s mouth with the bitter taste of aquavit.

When he pulled away to put a bit of space between them and looked at Q, the corners of his eyes were crinkled in the most delightful way which Q certainly did not committed to memory in a flash.

“As you know, I’m just not one to tolerate being taken advantage of.”

The younger man gave a huff. “Oh please, I assure you, if it hadn’t been a life or death scenario I would never have laid a finger on an old dog like you.” His nose wrinkled up as if in disgust.

Before Bond could feign injury, he carried on. “But, I will allow that it was not entirely an unpleasant experience, and that further exploration could prove...rewarding.”

Bond leant back in for another kiss, smirking insufferably.

“Let’s just put you and that silver tongue of yours to the test, shall we. This time, there’s no time limit so do your worst.”

Q bit down lightly on his lower lip and announced haughtily.

“Steel yourself, old man. If you think my tongue is the most fatal in my arsenal, astonishment will be your new best friend when you see what I can do with my little finger.”


End file.
